


sleep some other day

by violentdarlings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dirty Talk, Episode: s12e17 The British Invasion, F/M, Power Dynamics, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 14:01:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12960882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violentdarlings/pseuds/violentdarlings
Summary: The night before the morning after.Ketch and Mary, in a hotel room.





	sleep some other day

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Blue Collar Lullaby' by Coalesce.

It’s not that she wants to, except fuck, she wants to, Mary can’t think of anything else. She’s not drunk, because she has the liquor tolerance of a Campbell and a hunter besides, but she can’t deny that Ketch’s whisky is helping. He sits across from her, lounging across the sofa, and his hands – God, Mary can’t stop looking at them, elegant and heavy, and how they might feel on her skin.

She’s been alive again for months, and she’s spent them untouched. Save for hugs from her boys, it’s been only the occasional, incidental touches that occur between strangers; a bumped elbow here, the brush of a fingertip while receiving change there. Nothing deep, nothing intimate, and Mary the kind of woman who’d loved fucking her husband, who couldn’t get enough of John, a thousand years ago when they were married, when they were alive.

“Something on your mind?” Ketch drawls. Mary eyes him, the long lines of his body, the broadness of his shoulders. She wouldn’t mind clinging to those shoulders, or riding him shamelessly, using him for her own enjoyment. Yes, she decides. She will.

“Take your clothes off and come to bed,” she orders him. She has the brief pleasure of his shock; a faint widening of the eyes, the subtle motion of his eyelashes, the muscles around his mouth going lax. He recovers quickly, however; Ketch is nothing if not adaptable, at least when in the field.

“A bold proposal,” he allows, not budging an inch. “And if I were to refuse?” Mary shrugs, and removes her flannel shirt. His eyes track her involuntarily; Mary is under no illusions that Ketch is a sociopath, and a predator. She is also confident she could best him.

“Be on your way, then,” she tells him, waving a brief hand at the door as she steps out of her jeans. Ketch raises a dark eyebrow.

“One could argue that since this suite is paid for by the British Men of Letters, this suite is also _my_ suite,” he counters, but Mary can tell she’s sparked his interest by the brief, almost convulsive movement as he adjusts his tie. Mary examines her fingernails, pretending to scratch at a spot on one nail. Ketch’s eyes narrow. He dislikes her pretensions as much as Mary dislikes his.

“Since you are going to be of no use to me, it hardly matters where you are,” she informs him, and slips between the bed covers in nothing but undershirt and panties. “Be a good lad and lock the door on your way out.”

The use of the word ‘lad’ is the tipping point, Mary can tell just from the slow way Ketch stands, rolling his shoulders; his hands are in loose fists as his sides. Mary waits, skin tense with anticipation, thoroughly ignoring Ketch as he paces towards her like he is stalking prey. “I am _not_ your lad,” he says softly, low and dangerous as he moves towards her, as graceful as a big cat and just as deadly. “I am not anyone’s idea of a _lad_.”

Mary smiles breezily up at him. “My mistake,” she says sunnily, and is rewarded by a broad hand around her throat, lifting her up until she’s kneeling on the bed, Ketch hunched down towards her, his mouth an inch from her own.

“Yes,” he says hoarsely, eyes burning, “your _mistake,_ ”, and he looks as if he wishes to strike her but Mary is no one’s idea of a victim. She lets him hold her up by the scruff of her neck, meets his gaze fearlessly, and slowly Ketch’s arm relaxes until he’s holding her to him with the strength of one broad forearm, pressing her breasts against the reassuring bulk of him. “Foolish woman,” he tells her, with something that sounds like counterfeit affection, and Mary doesn’t like the thought that he might believe he’s fooling her, so she responds with nothing like fondness.

“Ass,” she snaps, and drags him in by his lapels for a kiss, bruising and hard and nothing kind, so she does not have to hear him speak. Ketch cradles her jaw with his spare hand and lets her lead the kiss, Mary licking into the bittersweet of his mouth, harsh like the whisky. But he’s not the type to follow, and Ketch is turning the tables on her swiftly; Mary lets him, lets him believe he’s had something like a victory as she loosens his belt and unfastens his zip.

Ketch jerks, his tongue lashing at hers like a weapon, as though trying to draw out her secrets. But Mary is better armoured than that; she gets a hand in his trousers, on the length of his cock, and as she strokes Ketch hisses low between his teeth, grabs her by the wrist so hard she’d swear he’ll leave bruises. “Knickers. Now,” he rasps, and Mary smirks at the British phrasing as she wriggles out of her panties, takes off her undershirt for good measure.

She can’t deny he looks good, still in his shirt and trousers, his hard cock poking through his flies. Ketch has dispensed with his jacket, his waistcoat, and he is not shy about what he wants; he drops sharply to his knees and arranges Mary as he wants her, her legs draped over his broad shoulders, her back on the bed, his dark head between her thighs.

When he begins to lick, slow and sincere and extremely insistent, Mary looks at the ceiling and sets her jaw, reminds herself harshly that this is a power play thing, that he’ll feel he’s got one up on her if he makes her come. But fuck, he makes it look good, his bright, ice-shard eyes looking up at her from between her legs, infused with that artificial warmth, like getting her off is all he could possibly ever want. She knows better than to believe it, but all the same, she can understand why Ketch is as an effective a honeypot agent as he is a ruthless killer. It takes all her restraint not to lift her hips into that efficient mouth, his ruthless tongue, his dangerous teeth.

“You enjoy that far too much,” Mary says. Ketch hums against her. There’s a dark lock of hair loose from the rest against his forehead; it softens the harshness of his face. Mary wants it gone. She doesn’t want to feel a single iota of softness for this predator.

“Maybe I do,” he says, breaking away for a moment, licking his lips like a whore. “Is that a crime?” She’s left wetness all over his chin. Mary hooks her ankle behind his neck and shoves him back down, this time allowing herself to relax into it, even to arch a little.

“You enjoy it because you’re a dirty slut,” she accuses him. It fascinates her, watching his pupils dilate sharply, feeling the shudder run through his brawny frame. It makes sense, really, that Ketch is just fucked up enough to get off on being humiliated during sex. “You’re not very good at this, are you,” Mary taunts him. A low growl is building in his throat; she can feel the rumble of it through his mouth. The hum of it is delicious. “You can’t help it, it’s the Brit in you. Everyone knows British men are the world’s worst lovers –”

Ketch tears his lips away from her to bite out, “You fucking American _bitch_ ,” before grabbing her ass and hips in his massive hands and dragging her down to the floor to slide, wet and ready, onto his cock. Mary spares a brief through for contraception before deciding, fuck it, and bracing her hands on his chest to ride him properly.

“Now this is better,” she informs him conversationally, cataloguing the flutter of his eyelashes, the needy buck of his hips up towards hers. She knew, she knew Ketch is so tightly wound that he’d just fall apart during sex, like a puppet with its strings cut. “Lets me use that cock of yours the way it ought to be used.”

Ketch moans, and looks stunned, like he can’t believe that noise came out of him. Mary grinds down, wringing another startled whine from his throat. “I can’t take much more of this,” he gasps. Mary smirks; they’ve barely been at this fifteen minutes. The young have no stamina these days.

Mary files an insult about his fitness away in her brain, next to the one about his (perfectly serviceable, quite pretty in fact) cock that is cleverly worded enough to imply his equipment is less than average. For another time. “Ask me nicely,” she tells him, and Ketch’s face sheds another layer, until she can almost see something authentic underneath the artifice.

“Please,” he mutters, head twisted to the side, even features knitted in strain. Mary cocks a brow.

“Say again?” His expression is quietly furious; she can sense he can’t take much more of this. She can feel herself tightening around him, starting to unravel; it’s the power that gets to her, power, and the heavy length on him inside her, her clit buzzing every time she grinds down.

“Please come on my cock,” Ketch replies through clenched teeth, and just like that, as breathless and delightful as she hasn’t been for years, Mary comes. Easing back down is half the fun, but though all of it she’s aware of the weight of Ketch inside her, stretching her open, the irregular, panting breaths he’s making. Mary nearly laughs at the joy of it, this monolith of a man brought low, utterly in her power.

“Needy little slut, aren’t you?” she asks. Ketch’s eyes flutter open.

“Watch how you talk to me, woman,” he mutters. Mary, amused, leans down to brush her breasts against what little chest hair he has, until her nipples are nearly in his face.

“Who do you want me to talk like instead, an English girl? A _damsel_?” Mary flutters her eyelashes. “Arthur,” she simpers, her accent purposefully terrible, “oh, Arthur, take me with your English shaft, oh _my_ –”

Ketch’s expression is like thunder, and without his expression flickering so much as a hair, he stands, her legs locked around his waist, and flips Mary onto her hands and knees on the bed. The breaking point has been reached, but part of her, against her will, is impressed at the raw strength required to lift her from a lying position. “Don’t take the piss,” Ketch growls, and fucks into her, the press of his cock into her on this different angle a stretch for a moment before she relaxes.

Mary rolls her eyes but stays on her hands and knees, since it seems to mean so much to his obscure sense of male pride. And Mary would be lying if she claimed not to enjoy it; Ketch’s huge hands have her firmly, spanning her waist and fucking her onto his cock seemingly effortlessly. She can see him in the mirror against the wall, although she doubts he knows she can see him; the angle is wrong for him to view her as well. His face is contorted, his teeth bared, and the part of Mary that is still keeping score adds another bead in her favour. She has him _wrecked_ , Arthur Ketch with his well-cut suits and his impermeable black hunting gear, his superiority discarded like his suit on the floor, his rhythm starting to falter as he drives himself ruthlessly closer to the edge.

Mary, absurdly, wants to help him, but she also wants to taunt him. She settles for, “Hurry up then, I haven’t got all night,” and watches Ketch screw up his face, biting out ragged noises that might be appeals to God, the hot wet rush of him inside her. Quite unexpectedly, Mary comes again herself, smaller than before, a gentle wave rather than a soaring peak, brought to completion by Ketch’s need, his fervour, his desperate strive towards his goal.

It’s almost sweet, she’s willing to admit, the way he folds neatly in two after he comes, resting his weight on her body, planting his face in between her shoulder blades as though hiding from the world.

Almost.

 

“Well, was it everything you thought it would be?” Ketch asks the next morning as Mary gets out of bed. Mary shrugs, making her way to the bathroom.

“It was passable,” she sniffs. Ketch is shocked into a laugh, the real kind, not the light false chuckle he seems to think is realistic enough to pass close inspection. It is not, and Mary has learnt to tell the difference between the affectation and between the real thing. True mirth on Ketch looks like half-closed eyes, sounds like a brief burst of laughter like the crack of a whip.

“Oh, Mrs. Winchester,” he chuckles, dabbing a hand at his eyes like he honestly expects her to believe he’s wiping away tears. “You are something.” He’s sprawled out in the bed, just a dark sheet covering him, supremely unconcerned at the fact of his nudity. But that, Mary thinks, is just yet another mask.

There is Ketch, and there is the man he pretends to be: affable, gentlemanly, suave, when truly he is nothing but an unapologetic killer, held together by a few stitches of shredded human feeling. Mary isn’t sure whether she likes either of them. Mary’s not even sure she cares.

(She did not hold him while he slept. That would have been idiotic. She certainly did not spoon him from behind once she was certain Ketch was deeply asleep, as though she could infuse him through his microscopic pores some ethical sense of guidance, some moral compass to tip him just a little away from pure ruin. Mary Winchester does not care about Arthur Ketch. Not in the slightest, and she certainly does not enjoy holding him in the dark, his big body vulnerable in her arms. Stupid, to even consider it.)

As she dresses, Ketch’s superiority and condescension are back as if they’d never left. It would bother her, except Mary has felt the shudder of his desperate hips against her ass, the clench of those elegant hands, the broken noises he’d made when he came. It’s enough, to give her the certainty to be gracious, even as he acts like an ass about Sam and Dean, even she sets him straight.

She has the upper hand. All is as it should be.

Mary leaves him there in the fucked-out sheets.


End file.
